Productivity in Small amounts

Homework lasted 5 or 6 hours, a small amount really. At school I accomplished a lot, starting at 8 am and quitting homework now, at 11 pm. But I only sat in this chair, in the solitude of my cubic home, for a few hours. Of course at home, in homework, I am in rest. I cook, I work, I feel productive, and I drink much of the time.

 

What I accomplished is the question. I did what I needed to first, then did extra curricular that I felt to be very important, the school newspaper, but everything I wrote today needs polish.

 

Ah hell, maybe it all needs polish. I will never be satisfied with a work, always I will change a word, or find a spelling error. I feel pride in this. Like it makes me a true writer, my work never done. I know perfection will never, NEVER, come, but I still wish it existed.

 

My conversations today were good too. With my neighbor Kevin, a nice guy who just moved to Oregon. He needs a bit ‘a drama in his life but that’s ok, it makes the days interesting I guess.

 

And with the bar tender. That conversation was not special, but I’d had a few drinks and wanted to talk. He thought me very drunk or weird when I first came in. I just read and wrote and only the later was true. It was nice to see him re-evaluate me after I started talking with him.

 

Study can be consuming but definitely worthwhile. I have the perfect amount of it. Too much and I’d get bored, too little and I would not be getting much from it.

 

Anyway. Read some old writing from a few weeks ago. It was good.

 

Ok good night.

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Flies

I respect a fly’s imperturbability. When I swat one away from my food, he buzzes up to my face, and circles off, as if the bzzzzz of his wings is yelling directed at me for my rudeness. He then persists at my food. If I get mad and try to kill him, he will zig and zag me with cunning and speed, but he does not give up his cause.

A fly is always a “he” to me, not beautiful and dirty. Flies are old men who don’t take shit from young punks like me.

Unless I squash them, then they are just dead.

Ryan

Ryan

A man sits in his apartment, lonely and lazed on the couch watching bad TV. An advertisement comes on for a dial up prostitute service. There are beautiful girls, made up and shining, perfect tits and their vagina’s ready to be filled. He dials and they offer a number of names to choose from. He chooses Ryan. He pictures a twenty-four year old redhead, hair to her shoulders the same length all the way around and curled in at the bottom towards her neck. He pictures blue eyes and fair skin and a porno plays out in his mind.

A knock at the door.

Ryan enters, tall, with short black hair and a black leather jacket. His jeans are black, as are his shoes, but he wears a tight white T-shirt.

The man is dumbfounded. “You are a man?”

“Yes?”

“ I was expecting a woman.”

“Ryan. I’m Ryan. You ordered me. Hey can I use your bathroom a minute?”

The man nods and points at a door across the room. He feels trapped, he did order Ryan, but surely the ad had only women. When Ryan comes out he tries to explain but Ryan expects payment.

“I came all the way down here fella, so how do you want it? What are ya into?”

“I’m terribly sorry, I don’t want anything.”

“Then why did you order? I can’t come all the way down here just to be sent home, I have to make money, right?”

“Yes, I can see that, but I don’t want to fuck you. I could try but I don’t think I’d enjoy it much,” the man pleads. “You know?”

A smirk pulls on Ryan’s face, “Yes I suppose you wouldn’t, but I still need to get paid.”

The man pulls money out of his pocket. He counts through the bills, all folded separately and disorganized in his pocket. He counts them out. “How about I give you fifty?” he asks, holding out an offer of cash, and still leaving some folded bills in his reserved hand probably equaling thirty bucks, but it’s hard to tell.

Ryan thinks hard, and accepts swiping the money and heading for the door.

“How much would it have cost me?” the man asks.

“Depends on what you would have wanted.” he pulls out a piece of paper, and on it are various sex acts with prices: 1 night $130, anal $30, facial $20, cuddling $40, whipping $25 etc.

The man looks at the list, he had expected it to be more expensive. Ryan has left and the man stumbles to the door still looking at the paper, then looking out the door at Ryan leaving down the hallway of his apartment he calls, “Have a good night, Thank you.”

Ryan puts a hand up over his head, waving but not looking back.

Hamburger

He was born of grass and grain, broken to the smallest elements, reprocessed in way of protein, fat and carbohydrates, and grew into the left rear of a black and white spotted Hereford. Life was slow, his host was lazy and fat, and so thus was he too. He longed to work and flex his muscles but exercise existed only in the way of walking and casually drifting during the graze. Over the years he grew bigger and perfectly marbled with delicious fat.

One day his host was thrown into a chute and a needle full of steroids was pumped into him. It burned for days. This was just the beginning of the pain he would feel in his life. The shots would continue, always in the ass, always in him. Then one day, he and the spotted Hereford would be herded inside a truck and transported for a grueling 400 miles, then carted into a factory and put in a long line of others just like them. The fear of his host would send endorphins into him and he would tense with the fear as well. As they approached the front of the line the fear great unbearable and the meat of his whole body was tainted. Then a bolt tore through the skull and brain of the spotted Hereford and it died.

He did not die though, his lifeblood drained slowly from him, and strength of his cells depleted slowly and agonizingly. He was hung from a hook among thousands of other parts like him. It was cold, colder than he had ever been, and he didn’t move for almost a week. Then he was pulled down by a short man with a thin black pervert mustache and short hair, and brown skin of course. The man brought him to a small room, and cut him, his body, from the the bone he was connected to. Next he was shoved into a grinder with hundreds of others, all abused and unhappy like him. They were torn apart and mixed together.

He was packaged next. In hundreds of different packages pieces of him struggled on Styrofoam, encased in saran wrap. He could hardly breath and felt himself beginning to rot, a hundred fold times at once. He was then moved in another trunk and placed in a store.

Joe bought one of him, and Steve, and Mary, and Phil and Irene. A restaurant named Dottie’s Cafe bought him in bulk. Slight variations of his torture happened in their homes and businesses. His body mutilated with burning spices, and left to sit and marinate in pain. Then heat, always heat. They burned him alive, till most of him was dead. Some left more alive than others, but always his outsides were charred. Then he was eaten.

Chewed up and swallowed, mixed with different acids and pushed through the stomach of a human, and now and then a dog. There was not much left of him any more, his senses no longer wished for it to stop, wished for those peaceful days in the field, getting fat in the sunshine. At this point he just went with the flow, which eventually ended up coming out of his new host as shit, or passing through the element process again and becoming proteins, fats and carbohydrates. The parts that just became shit, ended up on the ground. It sucked him up and produced grass and other new vegetable life with what little nourishment was left of him.

He never died, just continued on and on, but it could be said that there were parts of his existence that he enjoyed more than others.